Highland Fire. Hannah Howell

warm, subtly intoxicating feeling caused by his closeness had been seeping over Moira, but it abruptly fled at his words. It occurred to her that his constant talk of marriage could have some cunning purpose. After all, she mused, if he made her believe they were to be wed, she might grow lax in protecting her chastity. She turned onto her side and glared at him, silently cursing the shadows that disguised his expression.

      “Is that your game, then?” she demanded.

      “My game?” Tavig could hear the anger in her husky voice and wondered how he had stepped wrong this time.

      “Aye—your game. Ye try to deceive me into acting like some tavern wench. Ye want me to believe all your babble about being wed, about being your bride, so that I will think ’tis no great sin to allow ye to bed me.”

      “Ah, now I see what twisted path your thoughts are taking. Ye had me a wee bit confused for a moment. Lass, if all I sought was a good rutting I would ne’er speak the words ‘marriage’ or ‘bride.’ I would be verra careful not to give ye any claim to me.” He tugged her into his arms, holding her just tight enough to mute her struggles. “I would just seduce you.”

      “Such arrogance.” Moira gave up struggling, but remained tense, silently protesting his hold and fighting how right, how good, it felt to be so close to him. “Not every lass can be seduced.”

      “Aye, I ken it. I wouldnae try to seduce ye, lass.” He inwardly asked forgiveness for that lie for he had every intention of trying to coax her into being his lover. “I have no need to. We are mates, a fated match. Destiny has paired us.”

      “Ye talk such complete nonsense.”

      “Do I? Can ye not feel it, fair Moira?”

      “Feel what?”

      “The bond between us.”

      Moira could feel something, but she was not sure she should call it a bond. He was warming the curve of her neck from her shoulder to her earlobe with soft kisses, and that warmth rippled through her body. That gentle yet pervasive heat also curled through her mind, melting away all her suspicions and anger. She considered a bond to be something steadfast, built over the years by familiarity and trust which made a person feel calm, confident, and safe. What Tavig was stirring inside of her was hot, fierce, new, and frightening. He was seducing her. He spoke of bonds and matrimony yet what he was pulling from her, what Moira was certain he was intending to stir within her, was the basest of hungers. Moira was afraid of the strength of that hunger and of her own weakness.

      “’Tis unfair of ye to play your lecher’s games with me,” she protested, a little surprised at how soft and husky her voice was. “I am a weelborn maid, not some light-moraled wench.”

      “Now, lassie, whilst I will admit that ye make me feel verra lecherous, I play no game here.” He began to brush light, teasing kisses over her small face, stirred by the signs of passion he could sense in her. “How can ye not feel the bond destiny has set between us? Do ye think I speak of marriage to every sodden lass I find sprawled upon the shore?”

      “How should I ken what ye tell the lasses? I only started to speak to ye but yesterday.”

      “True, but I have forgiven ye for behaving so coldly toward me.”

      “Ye are a jester. Ye should wear the belled cap so that all may ken your wit.”

      “Now, Moira, what have I done to make ye mistrust me so?”

      “Other than being condemned to hang for the murder of two men?”

      Tavig looked at her for a moment then smiled. “Ye ken that I didnae do that.”

      Moira decided that the way he could just look at her and know how she felt was not only intimidating but annoying. “I havenae decided if I believe your tale of innocence or not.”

      “Aye, ye have.” He kissed the hollow by her ear.

      She trembled. “Ye are a verra arrogant fellow.” She clung to the front of his shirt, struggling vainly to regain her wits enough to push him away. “Ye should have more respect for a woman’s innocence and her desire to keep it.”

      “Lass, I begin to think that ye could merrily rut with every mon the length and breadth of Scotland and still be innocent. A wee bit of loving from a mon who wishes to wed ye cannae steal it away.”

      “I have decided to ignore all your mad talk of wedding me.”

      “Have ye now?” He feathered soft kisses over her cheeks, edging ever closer to her full, tempting mouth.

      “Aye, and now I demand that ye release me.”

      “Free yourself,” he murmured, lightly brushing his lips over hers.

      Moira really did not want to. A sharp flicker of resentment cut through the heat flowing through her. He should accept her refusal to play his game no matter how halfhearted it was. Her irritation was short-lived, however. The desire rushing through her body was too strong. She had never been kissed before and she desperately wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by the darkly handsome man holding her. She promised herself that she would allow only one kiss.

      Tavig sensed her acquiescence, and covered her soft mouth with his. She curled her slender arms around his neck. He held her close, heartily savoring the sweet innocence of her mouth. The promise of a fiery passion was there, and he ached to uncover it, but he knew he could not rush her. Life with Sir Bearnard had left her wounded. Tavig knew he would need a very gentle hand to smooth away those scars.

      He moved his hands down her sides, lightly tracing her slender shape. When she pressed against him, her body trembling beneath his touch, he knew it would be difficult to proceed as carefully as he needed to. Only the thought of how easily he could destroy the very passion he ached to taste held him to his vow to move slowly.

      When he lifted his head and looked at her, his breath caught in his throat. Even in the dim moonlight he could see the flush of passion in her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were heavy-lidded. Her full lips glistened from the moisture of his kiss. He could feel her small, taut breasts moving against his chest in a quickened rhythm.

      “Part those bonnie lips,” he whispered.

      “Why?”

      “Do it and ye will soon ken why.”

      Moira hesitated only a moment. He had done nothing frightening yet. When she parted her lips and he uttered a low moan, she began to have doubts. He allowed her no time to consider them. He pressed his warm mouth against hers, easing his tongue between her lips. She clutched at him as he stroked the inside of her mouth, each movement of his tongue sending fire through her veins. Moira lost all sense of time and place, her mind rapidly filling with nothing but the thought of how good Tavig MacAlpin was making her feel.

      When he silently urged her down onto their rough bed, covering her body with his, his touch growing bolder, she began to regain her senses. She fought a stern battle with her own desire. It felt so wonderful she wanted to continue, but, innocent though she was, she knew things had gone too far. In her head she could hear Crooked Annie’s raspy voice saying, “Dinnae let a mon cover ye, lass.” She had let Tavig do so and must put a stop to it.

      Just as she was about to try to say something to push him away when every part of her wanted to hold him close, he stopped. He pressed his forehead against hers for a moment as he took several long, unsteady breaths. A minute later, he rolled onto his side, but kept her tucked up against him.

      “I believe that is enough of that, lass,” he said, his voice soft and husky.

      “Aye, it certainly is.” Moira realized even the sound of his voice, roughened by desire, was making it difficult to rein in her passion.

      “I shouldnae have let ye tempt me so. Ye shall have to behave yourself better, loving, if ye mean to hold fast to your chastity.”

      It took Moira a minute to understand what he was saying and then to believe that she